


A Night Sky Full of Stars

by rosyrotten



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Minor Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dorothea Arnault, Past Sylvain Jose Gautier/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Post-Canon, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25929745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyrotten/pseuds/rosyrotten
Summary: “Do you want to make a wish?” Mercedes asks, pulling her from her reverie. They’re standing side-by-side, still holding hands, and Mercedes is close enough that Ingrid can make out all the subtle freckles across her cheeks. “Or maybe, did you want to dance?”***It takes the wedding of one of her best friends for Ingrid to reflect on the past and realise what she wants from the future. Post Silver Snow Ending.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	A Night Sky Full of Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I really started writing this in October last year and only got it across the line now... 
> 
> This is set in the same (Silver Snow ending) universe as Cut My Summer Soul and fairly soon after the events of the previous story. Cut My Summer Soul is about Ashe and Felix getting together and dealing with some trauma and not necessarily in that order. Felix takes up pottery. That's the whole plot.
> 
> Warnings: Adults get drunk and do reckless things. Mentions of war, death and pregnancy. A horse is injured and there is a short description of Ingrid experiencing a life-threatening injury.

This is the moment, Ingrid thinks, that if everything was going to fall apart, it would happen. She twitches in her uniform, hands flexing at her sides and makes the mistake of looking to her right. Sylvain’s profile is reassuringly the same. The beard he’s grown in the last few years suits him well but his eyes still twinkle with the same boyish charm. Most reassuring of all, he looks calm. 

Ingrid would be lying to say that, in the world after Glenn, Sylvain hadn’t strongly featured in her dreams. It was him or a nebulous womanly figure, spurred on by Dorothea’s coy giggle, Hilda’s bouncing pink pigtails or the flex of Edelgard’s arms as she raised her axe. Between the two concepts, Sylvain was the safer choice.

In her particular fantasies about this moment, it was King Dimitri standing before them with his book of vows open, not their teacher turned religious figure. She would be wearing a dress, with a long white trail like her mother always imagined. Most importantly, in these fleeting imaginings, Sylvain was marrying her, not another woman.

Ingrid has a strange moment of dissonance, where all her teenage fantasies come back to haunt her and she forgets for a second that, in fact, she is not marrying him today. Her stomach freefalls through her boots, hitting the floor of the chapel alarmingly quickly. She’s grateful when the music starts up, because surely everyone present would hear the sound of her thundering heartbeat without it. Felix, on Sylvain’s other side, catches her eye and gives her a solemn nod. She finds it hard to believe he’s keeping it together; Ingrid doesn’t want to be the only one falling apart. 

She needs something grounding and like a word from the Goddess herself, Ingrid knows who to look for. The doors to the chapel creak open and the violins swell. As if she too has received the message from on high, Mercedes rises to her feet a heartbeat before the crowd. She’s already looking directly at Ingrid and smiles when they lock eyes. In a moment, it all becomes so simple and Ingrid releases the breath she’s been holding, as the rest of the chapel stands for the entrance of the bride.

-+-

_1180 Ethereal Moon… nine years ago..._

Ingrid's footsteps crunch loudly across the gravel as she storms away. She hits the soft grass and stumbles when the heel of her sandal sinks into the loam and is torn from her foot. Angrily, she reaches down and removes the other. The sandals are a pair lent from Shamir, the only woman she knows in the monastery with the same sized feet, and her heart sinks when she notices the tear in the strap. Then she sees the grass stain on the dress she's borrowed from Dorothea who had insisted it wasn't expensive, but Ingrid just knows it was a gift and now she's turned the hem bright green.

She's going to cry, she realises, ten steps from the ball carrying on behind her. She's going to cry and someone (it'll be Sylvain, she just knows it'll be Sylvain) will come out and find her bawling on the lawn like a child. No, Ingrid tells herself, feeling her cheeks heat up again, he's already humiliated her enough for one night. She won't give him the satisfaction of comforting her as well. Ingrid picks up the hem of her skirt in one hand, the sandals in the other and runs, barefoot away from the ball.

She's sure as she turns a corner into a dark corridor that she hears his voice calling her name. Ingrid keeps running.

She lets her feet take her where they please, her head buzzing with confusing and unwanted thoughts and thus, she's surprised to find herself at the base of the goddess tower. If her cheeks weren't red before, she's sure they're crimson now. What a stupid myth, what meaningless garbage, the kind of idiotic thing a playboy jerk would make up to con pretty girls into giving him a ki--

"Oh, hello Ingrid," a soft voice says, slamming her runaway brain to a stop just as she was beginning to work up steam. Mercedes appears beside her like a pale dream, hair glowing in the moonlight. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Ingrid struggles with words, opening and closing her mouth soundlessly. Luckily she's saved by Mercedes again, "oh, what a great idea, you've taken your shoes off!"

Before Ingrid can argue, Mercedes places one hand on her shoulder, leaning on her while she removes her heels one after the others. She shrinks a few inches. "That's better," she sighs with relief.

Mercedes looks around them. "You didn't come here with anyone?"

Ingrid flushes again. "No!" she nearly shouts in protest and Mercedes giggles at her outburst. Mercedes takes off for the tower, shoes in one hand, flitting in and out of the shadows like a ghost. 

"What are you doing?" Ingrid hisses out after her, glancing left and right before following the older girl. Mercedes smiles over her shoulder, a sly look at her face.

"We're going to make a wish, silly. What else would we do?"

Ingrid's heart stops, even as her feet continue forward. "I don't think it works with two girls," she says awkwardly. 

Her brain feels disconnected from her body, which is drawn to Mercedes in the darkness. Mercedes reaches for her hand as she stumbles and it is cool and reassuring in her tense grip.

"I'm sure the Goddess won't mind," Mercedes replies mildly. Ingrid allows herself to be led, through the darkness and up the stairs. The moonlight doesn’t reach all the way inside the tower, but Mercedes seems sure in her steps and Ingrid follows, eyes wide in the pitch black. She knows her hand is sweaty in Mercedes’ and knows that the other girl must feel it, but she can’t bring herself to let go. They step out onto the balcony and the view takes Ingrid’s breath away.

Fodlan unfolds before them, first the monastery, then the neighbouring villages and finally the rolling hills and valleys of the Adrestian Empire to the South. 

But Ingrid’s eyes are drawn up. The sky is lit up with the pinpricks of a hundred-thousand stars. She knows some of the familiar constellations, but the patternless ones are just as beautiful to her. Ingrid itches to fly amongst them, as impossible as she knows it is. 

“Do you _want_ to make a wish?” Mercedes asks, pulling her from her reverie. They’re standing side-by-side, still holding hands, and Mercedes is close enough that Ingrid can make out all the subtle freckles across her cheeks. “Or maybe, did you want to dance?”

“Dance?” Ingrid wrinkles her nose. Mercedes hides her laugh behind her hand.

“You looked like you were having so much fun, before.”

“Before Sylvain ruined it,” Ingrid grumbles. She can feel his hands at her waist, dipping her down, his breath warm on her face and his lips curving-- she shakes her head free of the memory. “No, thank you Mercedes, I have had enough of dancing for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, I hope that’s not true. I didn’t get to have my turn tonight.”

“Oh, uh, I apologise?”

“I forgive you,” Mercedes replies immediately, like Ingrid has wandered into her web, “if not a dance, how about that wish?’

Ingrid looks away off the balcony. She watches the bob of lights in the village below, patrolling guards or maybe late-night revellers. She swallows, willing the tension from her shoulders, but she's holding onto the balcony (and Mercedes) a little too tightly still. Since they started having tea together regularly, it's been so easy to talk to Mercedes. Right up until this moment.

“I wish,” Mercedes says, “that we have the chance to fall in love and marry whoever we choose.”

 _I wish you’d fall in love with me_ , Ingrid thinks. The thought is sudden and disappears as quickly as it comes. It’s the tower, and the night, she tells herself, it’s put strange thoughts in her head. She’s grateful for the darkness of the night that it hides the heat of her cheeks. 

Mercedes is smiling at her patiently, expecting an answer. Only there’s no way she can say what she’s just thought out loud. She’s going to have to say something else. Ingrid inhales, and says--

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon… one war and four years of recovery later…_

Nothing. In the quiet roar of the sky, there are no true words, but Ingrid can hear on the wind the shapeless sounds that rushing air produces. She shakes her head free of the voices and squints down to take in her surroundings, sparing a smile when she spots her target destination.

Ingrid flies solo. She loves her squadron, but the freedom to duck and weave through the sky with nothing holding her back is something she can only achieve on her own. With Boreas beneath her, she is part of the wind, able to sense and move with every little change.

She'd helped foal Boreas, back at the Academy. He had wobbled towards her with his first steps, shining with amniotic fluid, his tiny wings outstretched for balance. It wasn't until after the war she met him again, a stallion in his own right who had nuzzled into her palm and chosen her. Named for the winds that blew all year around over her former home, he'd borne her well for the four years since.

Ingrid tucked her body against his flank and Boreas flattened his wings into a steady declining glide. Below her the forests of Faerghus soften and smudge into the marshes that House Gautier's lands are known for. It is polite to arrive by land to another's Lord's castle so she drops out of the sky as they approach the surrounding town. Boreas shakes his mane out in disapproval; pegasi hate to walk.

The morning is bright, spring sunshine cracking through the frosty nights. 

Ahead on the road she spies a carriage heading the same direction. It's an old style, with a fresh lick of paint detailed with the heraldry of House Gaspard. Ingrid nudges Boreas to speed up and in a few heart beats they pull up alongside. The shutter on the window is shoved aside as she approaches and she's only momentarily surprised to see Felix's head appear from within.

"This is unlike you," Ingrid comments by way of greeting, dipping her head in a nod at the carriage. 

"Ashe broke his foot," Felix replies, leaning away from the window to reveal Ashe bundled in furs, one leg propped up on the bench opposite, splinted and bound.

Ashe raises a hand in greeting, face scrunched in a scowl. He looks tired and pale. Paler than usual. 

"Ouch,” Ingrid says in sympathy, “that looks painful.”

“A healer’s looked at it already, but I have to keep my weight off of it,” Ashe explains. It’s easy to see this has been no mean feat. Ashe is naturally active, like a bird in the tree hopping from branch to branch. Even now he looks antsy couped up in the carriage.

Boreas makes to speed up, desperate to hit a canter, but Ingrid reigns him back in. He's always been a bit jealous around the boys. She makes a soothing sound and a mental note to slip a few treats to him later.

When she looks back around, Felix and Ashe are in a quiet conversation, heads tipped together. Felix has covered Ashe's hand with his own and Ashe deftly entwines their fingers. Ingrid glances away quickly, feeling like she's intruded.

In front of them, House Gautier springs from the surrounding houses. The town has a festive feel, celebrating the wedding of their Lord; a hub of activity as craftsmen, artisans and bakers seem to dash this and that out of the way of their entourage. The walls of the castle are draped in Gautier heraldry and garlands of flowers. Ingrid thinks that she should have expected this, but somehow it's even more garish and over the top than she predicted. 

Ashe laughs, clear as a bell, as someone throws an armful of flowers through the window of the carriage. A brave soul approaches Boreas long enough to toss a wreath over his head and offer another to Ingrid. She turns it down but settles Boreas' garland back around his ears neatly when he shakes his head. Even Felix is smiling at the surrounding chaos.

Ingrid tries to relax and smile too. It's hard, when she can't forget the last time she rode here with friends.

-+-

_1180 Lone Moon_

"Ingrid!"

She twists around in the saddle of the pegasus, bringing him around with her. Sylvain is tugging at the reins on his own horse, Felix catches up a moment later, panting to regain his breath. They're both covered in dirt and sweat and blood that isn't theirs, but they're whole. Ingrid realises with a lurch that there is a body across the flank of Sylvain's horse.

"We have to retreat, we can't win this," Sylvain tells her. Behind them the battle rages, noisy and frantic. As soon as the Archbishop and the Professor were lost in the fray everything fell into chaos. "Annette's hurt, we have to get her--"

"Annie!" Mercedes cries. She is on the back of Ashe's horse, both of them looking worse for wear as well. As they draw close, Mercedes slips from the saddle, hurrying to Annette's side and the air shifts with her healing spell.

"Where's his Highness?" Ingrid demands, landing alongside the others. Ashe's horse snorts and stamps in the presence of the pegasus.

"We can't find him," Sylvain reports grimly. Felix is brushing the hair from Annette's face as she stirs with a pained groan.

"Dedue either," Ashe adds. Ingrid shakes her head.

"We can't leave them. Once we find his Highness--"

"Ingrid," Sylvain interrupts sharply. His face is cold and his jaw is set. "If we don't retreat now, we’re all dead here.”

She steers her pegasus around next to Sylvain. They are all clustered together; an obvious target. Ashe is the only one on lookout, taking potshots at archers and mages out of range of anyone else. Ingrid looks around to the others, but no one will meet her gaze. They all agree with Sylvain. When she catches his eye, Sylvain holds her look steadily. “I don’t want to die,” he says, under his breath, just to her, “do you?” 

“We go North,” Ingrid demands, “and regroup in Faerghus. Fhirdiad will have already dispatched their army, we can return as a united force.”

Sylvain nods. “Agreed. Take Annette and get as far from the battlefield as possible,” he smiles, “if you reach House Gautier, you’ve gone too far.”

Felix helps Ingrid get Annette settled in front of her, practically in her lap. The redhead is pale and barely conscious. Ingrid winds the reins around over Annette, to prevent her sliding to the side.

“I’m coming with you as well,” Mercedes says firmly. Her braid is coming undone and there’s a streak of blood across her cheek; someone’s handprint. Ingrid weighs it up.

“I can only get us three a short distance before he tires and can’t fly,” she warns and looks back up at Sylvain. 

“We’ll be right behind you,” he promises. As Mercedes steps away, healing Ashe a final time and Ingrid--

Ingrid leans forward across the gap and presses her lips to Sylvain’s. As far as kisses go, it’s hardly anything. It’s nothing like the books, she thinks and feels like a silly teenager. Sylvain for his part is staring at her blankly, mouth slightly ajar. He is broken out of his stupor by Felix climbing onto the back of his horse.

“Let’s go,” Felix says.

“Stay safe,” Sylvain tells her, his hand squeezing hers before picking up the reins and turning away. Felix nods to Ingrid.

“You too,” she tells them both. Mercedes climbs into the saddle behind her, arms coming around her waist to twist in the back of Annette’s clothing, keeping her steady. “Hold on tight.” 

The pegasus takes off with a running start, gaining altitude slowly. They fly North.

The plan doesn’t hold though. They never regroup with the army marching from Fhirdiad. They never manage to save Dimitri.

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon_

Someone must have alerted the castle to their arrival, because Sylvain and Dorothea are waiting for them at the grand entrance, surrounded by their retinue. Ingrid returns Sylvain's eager wave of greeting. Dorothea tucks herself against Sylvain's side, leaning in to say something to him with an excited grin that makes Ingrid nervous. Sylvain wraps his arm around her waist, unconsciously pulling her closer. She's swapped out her favourite blood red dress for a teal and silver number that brings out the hue of her skin compared to Sylvain's frozen Faerghus tone. As she's talking, he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and the gesture catches Ingrid's breath.

They are the picture of a perfect couple.

All of a sudden it really sinks in. Sylvain, of all people _Sylvain_ , is getting married. It's not that it's impossible and Sylvain more than anyone deserves someone who loves him for him, but _still._

Still. Not that there was anyone for her after Glenn, but if there was going to be someone, she really expected it to be him. 

Ingrid pulls ahead of the carriage, burying her head in Boreas' mane to whisper kind things in his ears. She can't handle anyone seeing her face, sure that the complicated things her heart are doing are on full display.

When she slides from the saddle, joints rippling with stiffness, she's met with a sudden armful of Dorothea. The other woman burrows into her neck, breathing her in and Ingrid blushes. "I missed you so much," Dorothea effuses into Ingrid's collar, "I'm so glad you're here."

Dorothea has never been anything but honest with her so Ingrid wraps her arms around her and squeezes tight, hoping her gesture returns the sentiment. When they release the carriage is drawing up and Dorothea bounds over to torture Felix with the same affections. 

Sylvain's hand lands on her shoulder, his other raising her chin to make their eyes meet. She grabs his hand, pulling it away quickly without letting go. He's looking at her critically, but Ingrid keeps his gaze, never one to back away from a challenge. 

"You look well," she says, before he can deliver his assessment. With the hand she hasn't captured, he brushes loose hair behind her ear, the same tender gesture he'd shared with Dorothea moments ago. As his knuckle ghosts across her cheekbone she forces back a flinch.

"You work too hard," Sylvain says finally.

"Someone has to get things done around here," she quips back, trying too hard to be lighthearted. He pulls her into a hug, finally, and she goes easily, all but collapsing against his chest. He's warm, he always is. 

"Thanks for coming," he mutters into her hair, "I couldn't do this without you."

"Where else would I be, idiot?" The words barely make their way out through her tight throat.

When he releases her to help Felix assist Ashe from the carriage, Dorothea links her arm through Ingrid's, as if one of them has to be touching her at all times. 

"Let me show you to your room," Dorothea insists. Ingrid tries to twist around to Boreas but is tugged along as a stablehand approaches him cautiously. 

-+-

_1180 Wyvern Moon_

Sylvain has been frustratingly silent, angry in a way he can't express without all his carefully crafted walls tumbling down since Miklan died. Felix has been distant, too embarrassed by his careless comments about Ingrid's need to marry and too numb to apologise. Dimitri is … Dimitri, in a way she won’t understand for years to come. And he can't look her in the eye since she joined the Black Eagle classes. 

Instead it has been her new friendships, forged at Garreg Mach, keeping her aloft on darker days. 

And, to her surprise, Dorothea who leaps to her gallant defense when she receives yet another letter from her father. Ingrid is shaking throughout her conversation with Dorothea and the Professor. She doesn’t feel stable again until she’s saddling up a pegasus, her hands going through the motions without thought. 

She's thinking about Glenn when she takes a corner, out of sight of the rest of her class and comes face to face with a startled archer. The more years pass, the less sure she is that she loved him more than the idea of him. Glenn meant freedom and a family away from her father. He would have been her friend first before anything else. 

The archer gets his shot off as Ingrid yanks back on the reins. Her quick thinking means his shot misses her, but catches the wing of her pegasus. She's thrown from the saddle and is, briefly, perfectly, airborne before the world comes rushing up at her.

Ingrid hits the ground hard enough to punch the breath from her lungs. She is supine, staring up at the sky, struggling to suck in air, but alive when she realises she can't move her legs. In the distance Ingrid can hear the pained screams of the pegasus. Squirming, she attempts to push herself into sitting, but a cold lance of pain spikes along her backbone and Ingrid breathlessly gasps, falling backwards again. The sound of footsteps approach and she knows it must be the archer coming to finish her off. Her fingers scrabble across the hard rocks for a weapon. She closes her eyes and prays.

The next she feels is not an arrow or a dagger pushed into her chest, but a kiss on her lips. It's cool and tentative, almost a question. Ingrid feels the sudden return of sensation in her legs, like a light switch turning on, and it hurts before the healing takes that pain away.

Ingrid gulps a huge breath down and presses up, looking around.

Dorothea is standing over her, flames flickering around her hands as she releases a gout of fire towards the archer. On her left, Felix charges towards the enemy's reinforcements, roaring in wordless anger. 

There is a hand lightly resting on her chest, preventing her from moving any further. Ingrid looks up into the calm face of Mercedes, a tiny tight knot of concern between her brows. She glows again with Faith magic and the second wave of healing pulses through her, accompanied again with that phantom kiss sensation. Ingrid tries to say something, to ask her a question, but breaks down into a hacking cough. 

Then, Sylvain is sliding to his knees on her other side. He reaches out with shaking hands to hold her face, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone. 

"Thank the Goddess," his voice cracks and Ingrid can't meet his eyes, not like this, "I couldn't," he tries again, "I couldn't, not again."

Mercedes reaches across to Ingrid to squeeze his shoulder. "It’s okay," she comforts, "I've got her, it's alright."

"Thank you," Ingrid forces out, her breath still feeling trapped in her lungs. She and Sylvain’s eyes meet as he puts himself back together. She wants to tell him he doesn't have to, that'd be okay to let himself slip and be honest. She doesn't.

In the distance, Dorothea gives a cheer of victory.

Later, the professor apologises to her, away from everyone else. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner." 

"I understand," Ingrid says diplomatically. She is hobbling alongside the pegasus, too weak to carry her weight. "There's not much more you could have done."

The Professor gives her a blank look. Her face twists into something complicated, like she's battling against herself instead of arguing back. Then, she nods, grateful for her response.

Ingrid thanks everyone again when they reach the Academy proper. Dorothea smothers her in a tight hug and Ingrid repays her, guilelessly, with the engagement ring she'd been offered.

When she goes to bed that night, it occurs that she's never been healed magically like that before. She was a hardy kid, never so much as a broken arm. And the scratches and scrapes she's had have healed on their own.

Ingrid reaches up and touches her lips. In her studying, she's read that healing magic takes on a character of its own depending on the user. Unbidden the image of Mercedes’ lips on her own comes to mind, cool and soft, drawing back with just the hint of a question. Flushing, Ingrid shoves her face into a pillow, willing herself to conjure up something, anything else. 

She falls asleep wondering if healing will always feel like that, like a kiss full of life.

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon_

There's a few new tapestries on the walls and a few less suits of armour in the castle. The touches of Dorothea are everywhere. She makes every chilly room warmer. And people, there are more people bustling around House Gautier than Ingrid has ever seen before. Dorothea glides amongst them and receives bows and curtsies as she stops to make suggestions, pick out fabrics and taste dishes.

"Sorry Ingrid," she says with a sigh, linking their arms together again, "it doesn't seem to matter how long you plan a wedding for, everything always gets a bit frantic in the days before."

And yet, Ingrid thinks, watching her from the corner of her eye, she seems like a natural at it. Like she's been waiting for this role; planning for this wedding her whole life.

Ingrid, as an adult, has never spared more than a fleeting thought for what her wedding could be like. She always supposed there would be someone else who cared more to make those decisions for her.

They make small talk up to the guest rooms. Ingrid updates Dorothea on all the gossip from the Monastery and they laugh at the silliness of it all. 

"I've put you in the old Galatea rooms. Well I say old, but we've done it up a bit since you were last here," Dorothea smiles as she pushes open the wooden door. This is the room her parents stayed when she was a child, sleeping on a cot in the adjoining sitting room in front of the fire. Ingrid wanders through the space now, feeling breathless, taking in the familiar and the unfamiliar. Galatea insignia discreetly decorates the place and her fingers stroke across a rough woven aquamarine banner.

Dorothea clears her throat. She's watching Ingrid with a sad look in her eyes, but her smile hasn't slipped. In that way, she's a perfect match for Sylvain. 

"You're next door to Felix and Ashe, but if you'd prefer to be closer to the girls, I can move you."

"No," Ingrid says, forcing her voice not to quaver, "no, here is fine."

"Let me know," Dorothea says firmly, “if you change your mind.” She reaches out and squeezes Ingrid's hand. "I'm so glad you're here," she repeats, before leaving Ingrid to her own devices.

Ingrid looks around the room again, at all the things that don't quite belong to her, and feels lost.

She calls for a bath and let's it all wash away.

-+-

Ingrid smooths down the front of her dress. It's not much, she's never much, but she's tried her best. Annette picked it out for her years ago, something elegant but simple. In a wardrobe full of gambesons and trousers, she's kept just the one dress. She's allowed herself boots however, heeled and laced up to the knee. Well, she's not a gentlewoman now, not by any means.

She pauses at the doors of the Gautier great hall. The sound of chatter and music spills out from the ball within. She grits her teeth, I can do this, she tells herself, it's just one lousy party _._

Ingrid signals to the herald and ushers who pull the doors open and she steps through as she's announced.

"Ser Ingrid Galatea, Captain of the Knights of Seiros."

A few heads in the hall look her way. She nods to Sylvain who is in conversation with Felix and Ashe already. Otherwise, the room is full of redheads and political figures from Faerghus and beyond, none that Ingrid knows well enough to approach. _Fuck_ , Ingrid thinks.

Luckily, Dorothea is on her in moments, clasping her hands in her own, grinning brightly.

“Dance with me,” Dorothea commands imperiously. She is perfection personified, as, Ingrid thinks, she always has been. Her skin is smooth and flawless, her hair curled and styled in an elaborate updo. She pulls off effortless beauty in ways that Ingrid could simply never hope to achieve. And tonight, she is glowing. 

It’s been a long time since she’s looked happy, Ingrid thinks, even as she dips an acquiescing bow. “I can’t refuse the bride.”

“No,” Dorothea replies, before breaking into a wide grin, “you cannot.”

Dorothea takes Ingrid’s hands and tugs her into the centre of the ballroom, pulling and chivving her along like she always has. Ingrid rolls her eyes in affection as Dorothea arranges Ingrid’s hands on her body. It’s clear she’s supposed to have the man’s role, but Dorothea is obviously leading. When they finally hit their stride, finding the rhythm in the music, Dorothea sighs in pleasure.

“Thank you,” Dorothea says quietly, moments later, “for coming. I know I said something similar earlier, but I don’t think he could have done this without you.” Though Dorothea is the taller of the two of them, she still manages to look up Ingrid through her eyelashes. It makes Ingrid’s breath catch in her throat. 

“I’m sure Sylvain would have been fine,” she manages at last, “he seems very happy.”

As one they look over at Sylvain, who is chatting to a group of women; his natural habitat for many years. Sylvain attracts attention like the sun and all the flowers of the garden open to him gladly. In her teenage years, Ingrid took the role of the rain cloud - chasing Sylvain away, for the good of the very same flowers. 

There’s an important difference in him now, however. His smile is genuine, Ingrid can tell. Her chest tightens with a hard to name emotion. She’s happy for him, for them, she tells herself. 

“How did this all happen? Sylvain never said,” Ingrid says.

Dorothea’s smile takes on a practiced look, she’s clearly prepared the story. “It might seem a bit sudden, but honestly we’ve both had a _thing_ for each other since our Academy days,” she drawls through the words flirtatiously, unaware of the hole she’s punched through Ingrid. Dorothea’s story fades from her ears, her body still moving even as she feels her hands and feet go numb. That can’t possibly be true. Surely, Sylvain would have said something to her. She would have known. Ingrid has had the misfortune of knowing about every girl Sylvain has ever taken on a date. If he’d had a _thing_ she would have known about that too. Unless he hadn’t told her, a vicious voice thinks in the back of her head, because it’d meant too much, because he’d been serious about it. 

Clearly, he’d been serious about it, Ingrid bites down on the thought, they’re here getting married. 

“I said to him ‘we can have as much sex as you want and I promise I’ll never give you children’ and he got down on one knee then and there,” Dorothea finishes brightly, with a smirk. Ingrid forces out a laugh, but it sounds insincere even to her. 

“Oh dear,” Dorothea frowns, slowly bringing them to a halt, “you’re looking a little pale there.”

“Too much spinning, I think,” Ingrid says weakly. Dorothea smiles at her gently, then more excitedly, looking over her shoulder.

“Luckily for you, your favourite healer just walked in,” her voice takes on a teasing tone. 

“What?” Ingrid says, whipping around just as a footman finishes announcing ‘--von Martritz’.

There in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her white and mauve frock, is Mercedes. As if planned, Mercedes looks around immediately locking eyes with Ingrid. Ingrid feels simultaneously her stomach fall out and her heart soar. She feels the complicated feeling she always gets when Mercedes smiles at her. And she's grinning back, she realises belatedly.

"Oh Flames," Dorothea mutters, squeezing Ingrid's shoulder, "you're hopeless."

"What?" Ingrid whips back around. Dorothea is close, smiling.

"Go on," Dorothea urges, pushing her gently from her arms, "I'll catch up with you."

Ingrid stumbles her first few steps away from the dancefloor, boots and all. The next song strikes up and the dancers take up their places. Silks and stiff fabrics of all colours swirl up around her as the music surges. She loses sight of her way, but when she looks back, Dorothea is gone too. Not to be deterred, Ingrid marches forward, the sea of life parting around her. She breaks past the last of the couples and she's face to face with--

"Mercedes," Ingrid breathes. It feels like the first full lung of air she's taken in weeks. Her feet guide her without instruction into the orbit of the other woman who merely blinks at her in careful observation.

"Hello, you look lovely," Mercedes says, leaning forward to tuck stray hairs behind Ingrid's ear. Ingrid is struck by the sudden desire to catch that hand and press her face to it. "Are you having a nice time?"

"I'm trying," Ingrid says wryly, "I'm still not a good dancer."

"Nonsense, you looked very handsome before."

Ingrid blushes, feeling tongue-tied. She changes the subject quickly. "I thought you were arriving with the Archbishop's retinue tomorrow."

"I was," Mercedes agrees, she reaches idly for Ingrid's hand and guides a few steps away from the door, which opens again to admit more guests, "but when I saw the state of Annie, I thought it best to stay with her."

Ingrid is about to ask what's wrong with Annette, when, on cue, she is announced at the door. She appears, belly first, taut under a velvet green frock, her husband supporting her by the arm. They meet eyes and Annette, tired as she looks, lights up and squeals, rushing forward to embrace Ingrid. 

"Oh, I am so happy to see you!" Annette wraps her arms around her neck as Ingrid finds a way to hug her back around her heavily pregnant body, both of them laughing. When they pull away, Annette pouts. "I know, Mercie says there's only two, but I swear it feels like three."

Ingrid looks to Mercedes who silently shrugs as Annette tugs her husband forward. "You remember William, of course."

She does. They bow, a little awkward with the formality, and he looks as nervous as Ingrid feels inside. William is remarkably nondescript, a quiet man who is shadowed by Annette's ray of sunshine. A fellow professor at the school of sorcery in Fhirdiad, he is about as far removed from the pressures of House Dominic and the history of Garreg Mach as Annette could have possibly picked. Ingrid is happy for her friend, to have found something just for herself seems rare amongst the former classmates.

"Goddess, you're even huger than I expected," Felix comments carelessly on approach, even as Ashe swats at his arm. 

"I'm going to pretend you said something nice," Annette rolls her eyes and pulls Felix into a hug over her belly. His eyes are wide and confused throughout the process. 

Sylvain, approaching from the other way, Dorothea in tow, sweeps into a deep bow, brushing his lips across Mercedes' knuckles. "You're as radiant as ever."

"Behave yourself," Mercedes chides, patting Sylvain's cheek dismissively as she retrieves her hand, "you're a married man. Almost."

Sylvain's eyes twinkle as he leans in to play-whisper: "to think, that could have been you."

This startles a laugh out of Mercedes to the others' pleasure. "Not in this lifetime."

"I'm not against sharing," Dorothea purrs as she wraps her arms around Sylvain, play-possessive. The women laugh as his brain stutters to a stop before their eyes.

Conversation rises up around her, Ingrid's friends swapping stories or recalling funny events from their past. Felix pulls Ashe into his side, taking the weight of his broken foot. Ingrid squeezes her own hands together in front of her. The bones in her fingers press painfully together. 

She remembers suddenly the ball the Archbishop held to celebrate the end of the war. Ingrid had still been recovering from a nasty arrow wound courtesy of Those Who Slither in the Dark and hadn't danced with anyone. The banquet had been sparse, rations and the treasury still depleted and everywhere she went she could still hear the sound of sobbing underneath the music. She'd let herself grieve for Dimitri then, who'd died at thirteen and been a ghost until he died again. 

Mercedes breaks her reverie, covering her clasped hands with one of her own and smiling. She is whisked off to dance by Sylvain and Ingrid realises she's alone with Ashe. He's watching Felix spin Annette gently around the dancefloor, face carefully neutral and unreadable.

"Ashe, I," Ingrid begins, but Ashe shakes his head and interrupts.

"Save it, Ingrid," he says, the words strike to the quick but he sounds tired and resigned. He looks around and hobbles to a nearby chair, sinking into it with a sigh. Ingrid can't help but hover next to him. "If it's an apology, I accept. If it's anything else, chances are, I don't want to hear it."

A waiter passes by and they both take a glass of wine. Ingrid finishes half of hers, formulating what she wants to say.

"I hear you're doing a good job, with House Gaspard," Ingrid says and he looks at her in askance, and she explains, "Felix writes me. It seems like you're doing a good job with him too." 

Ashe pinkens for a second, something Ingrid hasn't seen in years, but he smiles at her slyly. She barrels on through.

"I could never… do what you're doing, managing lands, people," Ingrid takes a deep breath, feeling like she's losing track of what she's getting at. The pause makes her weak, and under Ashe's watchful eye, honest. 

"I miss you," she confesses. She never felt as safe, as strong as when she had Ashe by her side. Calm and steady, well, until he snapped and threw down his bow and when he walked away there was nothing to stop him.

Ashe looks at her cooly. She tries not to crack under the pressure of his judgement. She's faced down multiple monsters but somehow an estranged friend has her quaking in her boots. Suddenly, he sighs, the fight disappearing from his posture. "I miss you too, Ingrid. I miss when we'd read together in the library."

It's a deep cut; back to their Academy days. Long before, well, before any of it. Ingrid swallows around a sudden lump in her throat. 

"I don't think I can explain why I had to leave," he continues, fixing Ingrid with a look. His eyes are like cold steel, his mouth set into a hard line. "Not to you, not now, but…"

"It's okay," Ingrid says quickly, “you don’t need to say anything.” The conversation tapers off there, both of them steadfastly watching the celebrations. Somehow, the silence feels a little less tense. 

-+-

As the night passes and after several glasses of sparkling wine, Ingrid is cajoled into several more dances. Mercedes and Annette use their dances to catch her up on gossip and news from across the continent. Felix holds her stiffly but tenderly and at the last moment, she dips him to catcalls from the edge of the dancefloor. Ingrid grins, thinking he'll be angry when they rise, but instead he looks flustered and fond.

Queen Petra's contingent arrives from Brigid and she and Caspar teach them all the furious flurry of steps that are all the rage on their island home. Raphael leads the crowd in a few favourite folk songs and Leonie’s ribald version of the lyrics prove to be much more popular. Dorothea and Marianne perform the steps they learned in school to great applause and Ingrid’s heart aches when she remembers Dimitri’s awkward footing on stage in front of everyone. Next to her, Sylvain openly wipes tears from his eyes before he catches her with a smile. 

She falls into Sylvain's arms and he cradles her close as they spin in lazy circles to some slow song. He hums to the melody and it vibrates in his chest where Ingrid's ear rests. It's as if she's listening in on his crest, buzzing beneath his skin.

The night dissolves as the musicians tire and cry for mercy. Between her and Felix's arms, they help Ashe hobble back to their rooms. As tired and in pain as he is, she can hear them good-naturedly bicker all the way to the bed. Ingrid experiences a rare pang of jealousy watching them go. She imagines their life at home, the ribbing and teasing that betrays true affection giving way into deeper expressions of love. Felix is more confident, less hesitant, with his touch these days and in response, Ashe’s smile reaches his eyes and reveals his boyish dimples once more. Alone, they have each other.

Ingrid gave up a home when she chose the Church.

-+-

_1186 Guardian Moon… the first year after the War..._

They had sent word ahead to Garreg Mach, one of Ingrid's faster flyers, that several of the Knights and many of the battalions were injured, but it's still a relief to see the Monastery appear on the horizon. 

Ingrid is exhausted, ready to fall off Boreas, but she drops lower towards her marching troops and thrusts Luin into the air. It catches the sun and sparkles and a weak cheer rises from the Knights, knowing they are almost home.

As they approach, the roads of the town have been cleared for them and a white cloud of mages and bishops have gathered on the entrance steps to Garreg Mach.

She feels Mercedes before she sees her, the cool kiss and following warm rush of her Physic spell. When she looks over, Ingrid can pick her from the crowd by the purple detailing on her white robes. She raises a hand, first in greeting then to hold on her cap as a breeze picks up the gauzy edges of her veil. Something in Ingrid’s throat catches and Boreas surges forward unbidden towards home.

It is so familiar now, but so welcome, to fly home and find Mercedes waiting for her. When it is Mercedes travelling the continent, Ingrid waits for her return on these steps too. It is their unspoken agreement, their welcome home party just for two.

Ingrid slides off Boreas as they land and into Mercedes' open waiting arms. Wordlessly, she buries her face in the soft crook of Mercedes' neck, the older woman laughing softly as she does. Mercedes smells like fresh bread, herbs from infirmary and a warm, living human. It's enough to dispel the memories of blood and ichor that have tainted the last week. 

Mercedes gentle hands rest on her back and Ingrid shudders in her touch. She must think she's crying, because Mercedes makes a soft, comforting noise in her throat and runs a hand across the back of Ingrid's matted hair.

"There now, it's okay," Mercedes murmurs, "you're safe now."

Ingrid pulls away to prove she's not upset, but her face is blotchy and wet. Mercedes gently brushes the skin under her eyes with her thumbs, hands resting on Ingrid's cheeks. 

"Good girl," Mercedes says quietly, only for her ears. 

Ingrid's heart does something complicated, a horrible twisting, tugging motion. She yearns for something she doesn't know how to express. A longing overcomes her, unfilled and then, like everything else, she waits for it to pass.

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon_

Ingrid shakes her feet out from under the thick wool coverings of the bed. She's managed to sleep for a good few hours and now she's wide awake again. Her skin tingles in the cool night air, despite the small stoked fire on the other side of the room. Her body is tired; the usual aches and pains of flying combined with a soreness in her feet from standing and dancing. Recently she's started getting a stiffness in her shoulder that doesn't release the way it did when she was younger.

She sits up now, rolling her shoulder, pressing her fingers into the firm flesh of the muscle.

Warm light flickers from the fire, casting silent shadows in strange patterns around the rooms. Last time she'd slept here had been during the war. She'd limped here, withdrawing from the front line of Gloucester territory. Sylvain hadn't even been here, entangled in some border dispute with the Sreng. Instead, the Margave had dismissed her with a disinterested look and she'd slept for a week in this bed before taking Boreas south to join Felix's endless search for the presumed dead Prince. If they'd found him then, would things have turned out differently? Could they have coaxed Dimitri back to the Monastery and saved him? 

These thoughts plague Ingrid every so often. She can only assume her friends suffer the same. As the paralysis of the past sets in, Ingrid jumps up from the bed suddenly, breaking free. Her feet sink into the plush rug and she shuffles into the warm slippers at the end of the bed. 

Her bedroom window opens just a fraction, enough to flood the room with the icy breeze outside. Ingrid presses her face to the gap, letting the cold sting against her closed eyes. She realises she's misremembered; that she was here at the end of the war. 

She'd stayed here, the newly crowned Archbishop next door, while they signed over the Galatea lands to the new Margrave Gautier. Sylvain had agreed that it was the easiest solution, after all, Ingrid was never going to get enough of a break from her duties to the Knights of Seiros to manage the territory. He'd already looked so tired when he took the quill from Ingrid's hands, fingers brushing and signed the papers. _No rest for the wicked,_ Ingrid had thought, knowing Sylvain had long outgrown his youthful skirt-chasing. _It's done_ , he'd said, smiling up at Ingrid sadly. She'd wondered at the time if she'd proposed it, he'd have agreed to marry her. But he'd want to keep her close when all she wanted was to take flight. 

She hadn't had any personal effects left there, but House Galatea remained like a museum. Or a crypt. She'd felt nothing but relief leaving it behind.

Now, she stares through the crack in the glass, staring into the darkness towards the rocky mountains that hide her former home. She feels nothing.

-+-

Despite the broken sleep, Ingrid rises at dawn, her internal clock ticking over even before the rooster crows. A Gautier squire helps her into her armour and he is freckly-pale and gangly, just the way Sylvain was at his age. Until suddenly one summer, Sylvain filled out and had eyes for every girl that wasn't scrawny, Glenn-promised Ingrid. 

She reaches the front hall at the same time as Sylvain, dressed in a formal suit and they eye each other's sartorial choices warily. 

"We're not at war anymore, Ingrid," Sylvain says mildly, rearranging the clasp of his cape as they approach the double doors together.

"I'm still the leader of a military force," Ingrid defends herself, trying not to let him rile her up.

He shrugs, pausing as the valets pull the manor doors open. "Promise me you have something less metallic for the ceremony."

"They are less than ten minutes away, your grace," a valet says as they pass by and both Ingrid and Sylvain acknowledge him with a nod. Ingrid flushes, hoping Sylvain hasn’t noticed her overstep.

"I do," she says tersely, and then, to change the topic, "no lady of the house this morning?"

"She's a late sleeper," Sylvain says by way of explanation. They descend the first few steps into the brisk Faerghus morning and he claps his hands together, rubbing them over each other, eyes fixed on the horizon. "I hope you brought comfortable shoes as well; you might get tired keeping me in place for the whole wedding."

Sylvain fixes her with a cheeky smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Ingrid frowns.

"Though," he continues blithely on, "the Professor- sorry, Archbishop- isn't one of very many words so it could be quite a short ceremony."

"Sylvain," Ingrid interrupts his blathering, "are you nervous?"

His smile falters, minutely. "It's just pre-wedding jitters. I mean, it's all, sort of becoming real and happening _now_ , isn't it?"

Ingrid weighs up describing in detail how she'll end his miserable existence if he changes his mind suddenly, but he's saved by the arrival of Mercedes and Annette.

"Sorry we're late," Mercedes apologises as she reaches them, pulling a shawl tighter over her shoulders. Ingrid involuntarily remembers the times Mercedes completely forgot her shirt for morning classes and all thoughts of chastising Sylvain leave her mind. William hurries two steps behind Annette, throwing a richly embroidered housecoat around her as she yawns into her hand.

"Not at all," Sylvain says, letting his expression smooth over, all hint of his and Ingrid’s previous conversation fading away. "We're expecting them any moment."

As if on cue, the roar of a wyvern echoes from beyond on the castle walls and the full might of the Church of Seiros descends on Gautier. Seteth makes a great deal of having the Knights dismounted to secure their landing, but the Archbishop merely rolls her eyes and slides from her saddle. Byleth’s owlish gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd and a sly smile creeps around the edges of her mouth.

“Professor, you haven’t aged a day!” Sylvain exclaims and holds his arms open for an embrace. Byleth side steps him, patting his shoulder affectionately and Sylvain grins cheekily, already expecting the scolding from Seteth as it starts. 

“Are you well, Ingrid?” Byleth asks as she passes, her astute gaze narrowing in like a hawk’s, “it must be strange being here again.”

Ingrid swallows the lump in her throat, a backlog of words threatening to spill out. “I’m fine,” she says instead. Mercedes gives her a sharp look that is decidedly ignored.

“Come, my Lady,” Sylvain smoothly steps in, ushering Byleth through the grand entrance, “allow me to show you to your rooms. We’ve recently had them renovated, so there’s more than enough room for you and any company.”

He throws this last comment of his shoulder to Seteth with a sly look who scowls in turn as Mercedes hides a laugh behind her hand. Ingrid takes her cue to direct her Knights around to the stables and barracks, an effective way to stay out of trouble for several hours. 

Dinner that night is a much more subdued affair compared to the previous. But as their plates are cleared a group of musicians take up the stage and dancing commences anew. The former students of Garreg Mach refuse to retire until they see their teacher take the dancefloor and Byleth summarily proves that skill with a blade does not translate to graceful footwork. 

At some point, Mercedes catches up with her again, cheeks pink from a few glasses of wine and tucks herself into Ingrid’s side. “This is nice, isn’t it?” she murmurs into her emptying cup.

“What is?” Ingrid blinks, finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the warmth of the other woman. “Oh, the dancing?”

“The whole affair,” Mercedes clarifies. The light in her eyes clouds over briefly. “We lost so many friends in the war, I’m just so glad to see the rest,” she swallows thickly, “so glad to see everyone so well recovered.” 

Ingrid crushes Mercedes against her and wills the Goddess to draw out Mercedes’ pain through her embrace. Byleth catches her gaze, but turns away to give them privacy and Mercedes shudders against her. When she’s done, Mercedes pulls away and Ingrid lets her arms give way. 

“Thank you,” Mercedes smiles and despite her red-rimmed eyes, pulls Ingrid out amongst the dancers once more. 

-+-

_1180 Red Wolf Moon_

“Claude and Lorenz are far too much trouble,” Dorothea says, crossing names off her list. She has an honest-to-Goddess actual physical list with every eligible bachelor Garreg Mach has to offer and a pencil that she twirls between her fingers. When she arrived in the library, she'd announced they were husband-hunting and Ingrid's advice was the only she'd trust. “Ignatz is too quiet, Raphael too loud.”

“Raphael is nice,” Ingrid interrupts to insist. She's sitting with her homework open, but Dorothea is too tempting a distraction to resist. The brunette is sprawled in her chair, leaning into Ingrid's space, her parchment and pencil for the two of their eyes only. They should be preparing for their mission to Remire, but a recent spat between Dimitri and Felix in the training grounds had chased Ingrid off, too broken-hearted to watch them both fall apart again. And Dorothea has been tense and weirdly tight-lipped, avoiding Edelgard the best she can.

“He's too loud for me,” Dorothea declares, striking him from the list. “Who's next?”

“Ferdinand seems nice?” Ingrid ventures, with a tentative smile. They've spent time together in the stables and while he's a little boastful and silly, he's kind and capable with the horses.

Dorothea rolls her eyes, “ugh, you can keep him. An annoying little bee. Nope, he never even made it onto the list.”

Ingrid’s smile grows wider. “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’,” she quotes, teasing, only to have Dorothea reach out and play-slap her shoulder. But her cheeks _are_ a little pink. Ingrid is momentarily struck senseless by the way her pretty friend tucks a lock of brunette hair behind an ear and looks up at her through her eyelashes.

"Don't be silly," Dorothea says and Ingrid desperately swallows through her dry throat. Dorothea doesn't seem to notice and continues, "Lindhardt is easy on the eyes."

Ingrid frowns. "Absolutely not, he's far too lazy. How about Hubert?"

"If he ever has eyes for a girl other than Edelgard, I'll eat my hat," Dorothea says wryly and they both peek across the library to where Hubert and Edelgard are talking in low urgent voices. Ingrid imagines for one ludicrous moment they are comparing their own list.

Dorothea and Ingrid both break out in giggles and receive a glare from a student at the next table. She mouths an apology, stilling grinning and Ingrid tries to stifle her laughter. 

"Now," Dorothea says, tapping a pencil against her parchment, covered in graphite scratches, "Dimitri is certainly a catch. Crown Prince of Faerghus, you can't go past that."

Ingrid wrinkles her nose, “No thank you, he's like a brother to me. And you’d have to fight Dedue for his hand, they’re practically married already.”

“Ah,” Dorothea says, eyes twinkling, “but I don’t mind being a third wheel now and again.” She reaches out and pokes Ingrid’s cheeks, red from her insinuations. Ingrid swats ineffectually at the pencil and Dorothea leans back cackling. “Felix is pretty,” she says instead, gracefully changing the topic again.

“Again, like a brother. Pass.” Ingrid looks determinedly down at her own half finished homework. She skirts around the issue of Glenn, feeling her chest tighten at just the thought of him.

"He's so pretty and stoic though," Dorothea sighs. "I do so badly want to crack that shell right open."

Ingrid briefly considers telling her friend about Felix's crybaby tendencies as a child, but her friendship with _him_ is tenuous at best currently and she'd rather not ruin it all.

"Sylvain?" Dorothea says, a question in her voice. She's not looking up at that moment so Ingrid gets a good look at the other woman's face. Ingrid's seen them flirting in the corridors, Dorothea turning him down every time. She seems to get a kick out of it, but Ingrid wonders if there's more to it than that.

"I could settle for Sylvain," Ingrid says after a moment, surprisingly quiet. She means it to sound like a joke, but even as the words tumble out they ring true. "At least it'd make my father happy. And he'd probably be too busy with other women to notice if I ran off to be a knight."

There's a strange, silent moment and Ingrid feels hot, awkward prickles climb her spine.

Then, Dorothea flings herself around Ingrid, gasping in fauxhorror. "Settle for no one! And certainly not that snake!" she admonishes, bodily pulling Ingrid into her embrace. Ingrid goes willingly, laughing along. With her arms around Ingrid, Dorothea tears the piece of parchment in twain.

"No one is good enough for my Ingrid!" She declares and is promptly shushed by the nearby students. Ingrid disentangles herself carefully, face bright red. "We'll grow old as spinsters together," Dorothea promises.

Dorothea reaches for Ingrid's hand, entwining their fingers together and the light catches the ring that Ingrid had thoughtlessly given to her weeks ago. The knowledge that she's still wearing it stirs something in her heart.

"My, my, should I call for a priest?" Mercedes stops at their table, arms full of books, clearly intent on tidying around them. Her ponytail is starting to come loose and a strand of blonde hair is falling defiantly across her face. When she talks, it dances to her words.

"Alas," Dorothea pouts, "Ingrid won't return my vow. I fear, by the look in her eye, you've stolen her heart from me." Dorothea pulls Ingrid in close batting her eyelids at her, a teasing smile growing on her face.

"That's not, I'm not," Ingrid splutters. She reaches out a hand as if to fend off the accusations and only succeeds in knocking her book to the floor. As she scrambles after it, Mercedes takes pity on her as Dorothea cackles.

"Ingrid, can you help me with stepladder?" She turns away, hiding a smile of her own and Ingrid leaps to her feet, chair clattering behind her. 

"Of course! Happily!"

"Happily ever after, more like," Dorothea purrs, low enough that only Ingrid can hear. Ingrid glares at her as she grins back. Her cheeks are warm as she trails after Mercedes through the library.

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon_

From some storeroom deep in some part of the keep, someone, Sylvain had declared, brandishing the instrument, had found a cittern. Either that or he had nicked it from a sleeping musician. The rest of the guests were long retired to their rooms, but Sylvain had insisted his best friends kick on with him the night before his wedding.

And so, with several open bottles of wine, they had found an abandoned sitting room and were taking turns playing the stringed instrument. 

Felix frowns in concentration as he plays, fingers moving swiftly across the strings to play a simple folk melody. As Ingrid watches, the crease between his eyebrows deepens and relaxes again. She's so distracted, and tipsy, she stumbles on a threadbare patch of carpet and lands against the warm chest of her friend, before gently bouncing off again.

Sylvain catches her face in his hands, stopping her in the midst of her next turn around the room. He squishes her cheeks together, grinning at her with glassy eyes. "I'm so glad you're here," he slurs, "have I told you that already?"

"Yes, you did!" Ingrid covers his hands with her own, dragging him along in the swing of her orbit. He's resistant to moving, holding tight to her and the ground. It makes her trip over her own feet again. "What are you doing?"

Felix stops playing suddenly, "what are you two doing? I'm not going to bother if you don't dance." 

Sylvain seems unable to look away from Ingrid's face, his own expression becoming serious and unreadable. Ingrid feels her face getting warm, and even though she can pull away, she stays. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Felix awkwardly tapping the neck of the cittern. 

"I have been," Sylvain says, grave in only the way a sincerely drunk person can be, "truly terrible to you."

"Oh Sylvain," Ingrid sighs, "no."

She can't put the thoughts to words to argue against him, they slush around sluggishly in her head. He looks ready to cry and Ingrid feels hot tears rising in her eyes. "No," he echoes and she shakes her head. As much as she can in his grasp.

His warm thumbs brush softly across the skin under her eyes. "I have treated you very badly, for such a long time."

"Sylvain," Felix snaps, trying to break the reverie, "stop it, you're being morbid."

"I don't deserve this," he rests his forehead against Ingrid's own, "and I don't deserve any of you." 

Ingrid is stunned into silence, she feels like she can't move in his paralysing gaze.

"But I love you all the same."

Sylvain finishes what he is saying and promptly stumbles backwards releasing Ingrid instantly. He collapses onto the divan, Felix scrambling out of the way, swearing. A moment later he is softly snoring. 

Ingrid can't help but burst out laughing, wiping the moisture from her face. Stashing the cittern under the couch, Felix joins her side.

"What the fuck," he sums up and she nods in agreement. 

Between Felix and Ingrid, they manage to reposition Sylvain into a slightly more comfortable pose. He grunts in his sleep, briefly reaching out to try and catch the stray hairs from Felix's braid. He mutters "'thea," but doesn't rouse to conscious. Felix takes his hand and tucks it against Sylvain's chest. 

They catch each other's eye and the silence grows taut between them. The words she wants to say to Sylvain are still on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't know how to address this now. Ingrid senses Felix is in the same position. But, just as there has been for so many years now, something holds them both back.

She hates that. She'll say something. She has to say something this time.

Felix laughs suddenly, a quick bark and Ingrid realises she has been scowling at him. He smiles at her, all sharp edges. "Let's spar."

"What?" she asks, disbelieving. Some things never change. "After this many glasses of wine?" 

He shrugs and she shrugs, almost automatically, in response, "sure."

Ingrid drapes a blanket over Sylvain's prone form and snags an open bottle of wine. On the other side of the divan, Felix polishes off Sylvain's near full glass.

They both have had their fair share of sneaking through the Gautier castle as children and adults, so the trip down to the courtyard of the barracks is a quick one. A guard sticks his head out as they rummage through the practice weapons for something in good keep, but is easily waved off by the two of them.

"At least your short lived relationship with Sylvain was good for something," Ingrid quips, inspecting a training lance for cracks. Felix makes a clumsy swipe at her and she laughs. She is drunk, full of bad ideas and enough reckless abandon to follow through.

"Usual rules?" Felix asks, referring to the ways they've played together since they were children. The loser has to answer any question of the winner truthfully. The four of them had confessed many inane and serious things to each other this way over the years. When they'd introduced the rules to the rest of their classmates at the Academy, they'd been readily adopted by the other students. It was extra motivation to never get knocked down in training lest you be forced to reveal your deepest secrets.

"Oi," the same Felix, over a decade later, snaps at her, breaking her out of her sudden reminiscing, "pay attention or this will be over in a second."

Ingrid snorts in derision, testing the flex of her chosen lance. "Big words from the man with no military experience in the last five years."

"You're so eager to get your arse kicked," Felix smirks at her.

Ingrid jabs at his foot and Felix springs away, spryly falling into a fighting stance. She backs up several paces into the training courtyard to give herself more space and even as she brings her lance into a defensive position, he charges towards her. Ingrid shoots forward, striking out towards him and Felix knocks her lance to the side, rolling along the length of the weapon into range of his sword. She ducks the attack, his sword gliding effortlessly through the air. Ingrid digs the tip of the lance into the ground and pushes with all her might; the lance creaks ominously, but the momentum feeds into a backroll out of Felix's range for a second attack.

Quickly scrabbling the lance into both of her hands, Ingrid brings it up above her face to defend. Felix's sword clashes noisily against the wooden staff. His face, as it always is in battle, is still and unreadable; calm in the midst of chaos. Ingrid, on the other side, let's herself grin. She launches up into standing, using her arms to throw Felix and his sword back. He stumbles and she doesn't let up.

Each of her lunges at him are punctuated with a forceful exhalation, powering her forwards. Felix starts out attempting to knock her lance aside, but is quickly forced to retreat backwards. His back hits the wall of barracks even as Ingrid readies herself for his counterattack. 

"I yield," he says, after a moment, nose wrinkling in disgust. It takes a moment to sink in for Ingrid. She hasn't won against him since they were children.

"You weren't ready," Ingrid says primly, withdrawing her lance from its threatening position at Felix's neck. She chews her lip in consideration, "best of three..?"

"No," Felix sighs out, rubbing a hand across his face. "I'm too…" he trails off, leaving Ingrid to guess what he means. He sinks to the ground, bending his knees up as he sits on the courtyard floor. 

Growing up, every part of Felix was delicate and graceful. His fighting style was controlled and watching him slice through the battlefield was like watching an artist making a masterpiece he has no love for. Ingrid has always been envious of him. She's always felt like a blunt weapon next to his sharp edge. 

"Ask your stupid question," he reminds her.

"How do you know," Ingrid pauses, feeling Felix's assessing gaze on her, she tries again, "are you in love with Ashe?"

Felix freezes, whole body locking into place and flushes a deep red. The movement of his eyes, staring a hole in the ground between them, tells Ingrid everything she knows. As if on instinct, she blushes too.

"Sorry!" she blurts out, meaning to backtrack entirely, but he cuts her off.

"Yeah, I am," he says, almost aggressively as he pulls his knees up to his chin. It reminds Ingrid of how Felix was as a child; a ball of anger, fur and tears. He looks deep in thought and speaks haltingly. "He's different, from… Dimitri and Sylvain. There's something unshakeable about him at his core."

Ingrid drags the butt of her lance through the dust in a random meaningless pattern. _Something unshakeable._ Someone grounding, someone always there for you. The wine and battle open her mind up to what her heart's been telling her all along. 

"I'm," she stutters out, swallows and tries again, "I love Mercedes."

Felix scoffs and Ingrid looks up sharply. "Obviously," he says, gaze drilling a hole into her, "help me up."

"Obviously," Ingrid echoes, moving to lean down and offer him her arm. As she does, Felix clasps his hand firmly to her upper arm. He pulls her close, close enough that their noses almost touch and she can see the crystallised determination in his eyes.

"It's been years. It's time to tell her, Ingrid," Felix says steadily. Ingrid's heart skips a beat.

"What," she says stupidly, "right now?"

Felix rolls his eyes and pulls against her unwavering strength to haul himself to his feet. "No, right now, we put Sylvain to bed so he doesn't freeze to death on the eve of his wedding."

-+-

_1185… a brief respite in a long war..._

"What does it feel like with Mercedes heals you?" Ingrid asks. They're setting up camp on the long traipse back to the monastery. The relief has set in and everyone is slowly coming down from the adrenaline. Everyone except their professor, standing apart from the rest of the camp. She's staring into the distance, still holding the Sword of the Creator from one hand limply. Seteth approaches her, his hand coming up to cradle her jaw slowly and Ingrid looks away from their tenderness with a pang.

Sylvain hums with thought, holding the tent's guy-line place while Felix hammers it into the ground. "Like when I had a fever as a kid and my mother's cold hand on my forehead. It makes me feel safe." 

"It feels like when my brother used to hold my hand," Felix says, looking embarrassed, he follows up quickly, "what about you?"

"Yeah, the same," Ingrid lies, willing herself not to blush. It still feels like a kiss on the lips, sending shivers over her body. Ingrid looks for Mercedes in the crowd. She's already sitting down on a trunk, with a cup of tea, being fussed over by Ashe and Caspar. She, like the rest of the healers in their army, looks exhausted.

Mercedes looks up, as if she senses it, straight into Ingrid's stare. She smiles and it sends another spark down Ingrid's spine. 

-+-

_1189 Garland Moon_

Ingrid wakes up feet first. The aching bruises on her legs become the turn in her stomach and the splitting headache rupturing up her spine. She groans, eyes still closed as her hangover hits and her brain regurgitates the events of the previous night. 

For some reason, it’d seemed like such a good idea to finish off the rest of the wine with Felix. Since knocking Felix on his ass, a dam had broken inside him and he hadn’t stopped talking for the next hour. She’d drank it all in and the bottle of wine with it. She groans again, remembering barely a conversation with Mercedes in the doorway of a bedroom, not that she’d managed to actually say anything.

A cool hand brushes the sweaty hair from her forehead and a healing spell brushes across her lips, relief sinking in almost immediately. Ingrid cracks her eyes open.

Sunlight is streaming through a gap in the heavy curtains, a single knife through the shadows. The fire in its place has burnt down to coals alone and a trolley from the kitchens is parked in front of it. 

Mercedes is sitting on the edge of the bed- _Mercedes' bed_ , Ingrid remembers, horrified- with an open novel balanced on her lap. Ingrid can't read the expression in her eyes and flushes at the thought of disappointing Mercedes with her stupid, drunken behaviour. 

"Mercedes?" Ingrid croaks and Mercedes automatically reaches for a glass of water on the bedside table and passing it carefully across the bed.

"Yes Ingrid?" she says, eyes twinkling as Ingrid struggles to sit up and gratefully gulps down the cold water.

 _I have to tell you something. No, I need to tell you._ The words feel foolish, the timing is bad, she feels sick and weak. She inhales and readies herself…

"Were you watching me sleep?" Ingrid curses herself for her cowardice. She wants to slap her hand to her face. She wants to fall unconscious and start the day again. Mercedes quirks a skeptical eyebrow at her.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Mercedes says playfully icy, standing to draw back the curtain revealing a wan Faerghus morning, "but the day has well and truly started for _some_ people, who don't have _time-_ "

"I'm sorry!" Ingrid interrupts, and then, "thank you for letting me sleep here."

Mercedes softens immediately, smiling gently and busying herself at a small table by the window. "You're always welcome."

The _in my bed_ goes unsaid, but Ingrid flushes anyway. Mercedes turns back to the bed holding two steaming mugs in her hands. The smell can only be described as heavenly. 

"Is that coffee?" Ingrid moans, already holding her hands out to accept the delicious gift. Mercedes chuckles, sitting back on the edge of the bed, legs pressing into Ingrid's and passing over one of the mugs. Ingrid has a moment juggling the glass and the mug, shuffling closer to the table, before cradling the coffee to her chest.

"Coffee for you, tea for me. And I have pastries when you feel ready for food."

Ingrid drinks deeply, scalding herself on the life-saving elixir, murmuring her appreciation. When she looks up, Mercedes is watching her again. They are sitting so close now that Ingrid can feel the other woman's warmth and count her pale eyelashes. Ingrid swallows.

"Mercedes?"

"Yes, Ingrid?" Mercedes breaths out her name like a whispered prayer.

Then, unbelievably, unforgettably, Mercedes' gaze drops to Ingrid's lips. Ingrid's heart stops.

And restarts suddenly when there is a thudding knock on the door. "Mercie!" Annette's voice cries out, audibly distressed.

Ingrid startles, spilling hot coffee on her undershirt and swearing. Mercedes rises gracefully and turns away quickly, not before Ingrid catches the pink on her cheeks, and makes her way towards the door.

"What's wrong, Annie?" Mercedes calls back, crossing the room and discarding her tea on a vanity.

"Sylvain is _freaking out_ and no one can find Ingrid!" 

Mercedes gets the door open just as Annette says this and her eyes widen when she spots Ingrid over Mercedes' shoulder, tugging at her wet shirt in Mercedes' bed, both of them blushing. "...oh," Annette says. "Um, well we've found Ingrid."

Ingrid is tearing off the bedclothes, leaping to her feet and searching for her pants - neatly folded on the table of course. She can't think, because if she does, she'll die on the spot of embarrassment, but then she remembers Mercedes glancing down and stumbles over her own feet. 

Mercedes, who is standing with her thick winter jacket ready and open, who a moment ago was looking like she wanted to--

"I have to go," Ingrid blurts out, as if it isn't obvious. Mercedes helps her struggle on her jacket and flattens the lapels. "Thank you, for, uh the coffee and, letting me stay."

"Anytime," murmurs Mercedes again and just for a second her thumb brushes the hollow at the base of Ingrid's throat. Ingrid shivers involuntarily and catches Mercedes' hand in her own. "Find me later?"

"Always," Ingrid promises and dashes off. As she leaves the room she hears Annette.

"Oh Mercie, where did you get these delicious pastries?"

Ingrid can't help but laugh, even as she runs through the corridors of House Gautier.

-+-

Sylvain is not laughing. He's half dressed, night shirt tucked into a pair of riding pants. Ingrid notices his boots are next to door even as he paces in his socks. Felix is sitting in a chair nearby, his head in his hands. When he looks up as Ingrid enters she can see straight away he is deeply hungover.

Ingrid immediately sticks her head out of the door to request someone run to the kitchen and return with enough coffee to wake the dead and a good quantity of smoked meats. She turns back to her friends and finds her calm; it was always easier for her to keep a level head when others were in crisis. 

"Right," Ingrid says, rubbing her hands together. The room's fire has been stoked overnight but the chill of a Faerghus morning always gets into her fingers. "What kind of breakdown are we having?"

"Existential," Sylvain moans, running a hand through his hair and down his face.

"Self-esteem," Felix interjects, looking at him pointedly. Ingrid hums thoughtfully.

"Because you’re a stupid, good-for-nothing, piece of shit that was just lucky he was born with a crest?" 

Sylvain looks at her in surprise. Even Felix’s eyes are round. In an alarmingly display of synchronicity, their jaws fall slack at the same time.

“And no one will ever love me,” Sylvain manages weakly. He sounds like all the air has been punched out of him.

“And no one will ever love you,” Ingrid confirms. Felix looks ready to leap out of his chair and physically defend Sylvain, but Ingrid looks at him sternly and he falls back into his seat. The coffee arrives and she pauses, pressing warm mugs into her oldest friends’ hands and putting the words together carefully in her head. All eyes are on her. 

“I’m sorry,” she starts, “that Miklan only had such awful, poisonous things to say to you and that we let you believe them for so long.”

Sylvain gapes at her, stunned, so she continues: “Our parents did a number on us, _all of us_ , and we’ve just collectively carried all that through a whole war and back to this frozen wasteland of a home.”

She takes a deep breath. She can’t stop here; she’s too deep in. Her captive audience remains silent.

“So you have a choice, Sylvain,” Ingrid doesn’t let her voice waver, “you can finally put down that burden and marry Dorothea and make each other happy. Or you can listen to the brother and the father that only exist in your head now and marry me and we’ll make each other miserable for the next twenty years.”

“What?” Sylvain finally says. Ingrid shakes her head and moves to pat Felix on the back when he chokes on his coffee.

“It was always on my mind,” she says matter-of-factly, “you were the perfect husband to satisfy my father and I could give your family as many- what do you call them?- crest-babies. And maybe one day you’d even fall in-” her voice cuts off suddenly as her throat clamps over and when she tries again, it’s accompanied by a hiccuping sob. She hadn’t even realised there were tears falling from her eyes. Sylvain and Felix are already moving in tandem towards her, Felix patting his pockets for a handkerchief. 

Sylvain hesitates before touching her, but overcomes himself and pulls her into a tight hug. She cries in earnest against his chest, even as he presses Felix’s handkerchief to her eyes. 

“It’s okay Ingrid,” he whispers into her hair. “You’re right, you’re always right.” Her heart breaks, one last time, sloughing the last of it’s dead weight. She pulls back, feeling hot under her jacket in the way that only crying can make her feel. Felix rests a hand on her shoulder, squeezing tentatively.

“I think there’s someone else I’d rather spend my life with,” Ingrid tells him honestly. She feels lighter, suddenly. Sylvain smiles, gently, and brushes the hair out of her face.

“Me too.”

“Did you tell her?” Felix says, urgently. They both look at him, Sylvain inhaling to answer, but Felix’s gaze is drilling holes into Ingrid’s. She rolls her eyes, extricating herself slowly from Sylvain’s embrace and swiping ineffectually at the wetness on her face.

“Of course not.”

“You should, you're running out of time.” Felix looks quietly determined, with an emotional intensity that has been a new addition to his facial expressions only in the last few months. Goddess, she thinks, how did Felix- even more tightly wound up in his own torture Felix- manage to sort his life out before the rest of them. Pottery, she remembers after a moment, biting down on the urge to tease him about it.

“No I'm not, I have my whole life,” is what Ingrid says out loud instead.

“Do you really want to wait that long?” Sylvain asks. He’s holding her now at arm’s length, as if he’s finally, fully taking her in. Eventually, Ingrid shakes her head. “Great! Let’s go then!”

Ingrid places a hand carefully over his heart. He looks down in askance and she pushes against him a little firmly. For all his clever ways and words, he can get so unfocused so quickly, she thinks.

“Let’s get _you_ married first,” Ingrid says. 

“Let’s all go have baths and _then_ get Sylvain married,” Felix adds, practically. Ingrid hates that it’s so, but they are all total wrecks currently. A night of drinking, fighting and crying will do that.

“Together?” Sylvain says brightly. 

“ _No,_ ” Ingrid and Felix say, together. 

-+-

Mercedes had gently brushed the hair from Emile’s face as he lay dying in her arms in the chaos of Fort Merceus. She’d spoken to him so quietly and sweetly even as he coughed and spat blood. It’d taken all them working together to bring down the Death Knight, but Mercedes had already been running forward as the final blow fell. Then, her former classmates had formed a protective ring around the siblings. Anette was sobbing softly in Ashe’s shoulder by the window and Felix and Sylvain were discussing something in low tones facing the other way. But Ingrid couldn’t look away from the tears rolling steadily down Mercedes' face, even as she smiled reassuringly. 

This is the memory that comes to Ingrid as she stands, once more, in front of the door to Mercedes' guest room. If she could have one thing, it would be to never have to see those tears again. She summons all her courage and lets it harden into resolve, reaching up to knock. From inside she receives permission to enter. Ingrid straightens the cuffs of her dress uniform and presses forward.

Mercedes is sitting at her vanity, fastening her hair up with a pin Ingrid brought her from Enbarr years ago. I've been so stupid, Ingrid thinks, almost fondly. She turns in her seat to face Ingrid and the warm afternoon light illuminates her gently. Ingrid bows, if for no other reason than to hide her blushing face.

"Mercedes?" Ingrid starts and Mercedes smiles. She moves across the room and drops to one knee. There's a sharp inhale of breath and Ingrid looks up into the soft and hesitant smile of the woman she loves. She tries again. "Mercedes."

"Yes Ingrid?" 

"Would you do me the honour of falling in love with me and becoming my wife?" 

"Oh my, I wish you’d asked me half an hour ago, I’ve just fallen in love and married someone else."

There's a pause as Ingrid tries to process what's just happened. Then, Mercedes breathes a whisper of a laugh and reaches out to touch Ingrid's cheek. Ingrid looks up to see she's smiling, eyes twinkling.

"You were joking." Ingrid relaxes, shoulders slumping forward and her head pillowing in Mercedes' lap. "That was cruel," she mumbles into the folds of her skirt.

"Sorry, you were just so tense!" 

Ingrid reaches up to pinch Mercedes' side and she squawks with laughter, squirming away from the attack. When they settle down, Mercedes cups Ingrid's face in both her hands.

"I thought you’d never ask," Mercedes says, eyes shining brightly. 

"You knew," Ingrid accuses, bringing her own hand up to hold Mercedes' there. Mercedes nods and Ingrid's eyebrows crease into a frown. "You’ve been waiting, for how long?"

"As long as it took you," she says and pulls Ingrid up to kiss, each in her turn, her closed eyelids and finally her lips. A touch as soft as a butterfly's landing on a petal.

“I felt it the first time I healed you, after our reunion,” she continues. Mercedes touches her thumb to her lips, an imitation of the spectral kiss that happened whenever Mercedes healed her. 

“What do you mean?” The pieces are sluggishly coming together in Ingrid's mind, slowed down by her overwhelming desire to kiss Mercedes again. She presses up onto both her knees, pulling Mercedes' hands from her face to hold tightly in her own.

Mercedes blinks at her owlishly. “Oh dear,” she breathes, “I forget you never learned much Faith magic. The unique feeling of a healing touch comes from the recipient, not the healer.” 

Ingrid freezes, her hand limp in Mercedes’. Her brain grinds to an unbearable halt, fixated on this one point. Mercedes is blushing, which, naturally, looks beautiful on her. Ingrid, on the other hand, can feel herself heating up to the point nearing combustion.

“You mean,” she tries, “this entire time… I’ve been kissing _you._ ” 

Mercedes nods, biting on her lower lip in an attempt not to laugh.

“You felt that,” Ingrid says weakly, “for _over half a decade_.” She buries her burning face in her hands and groans. “Why did you never say anything?”

“You were obviously working through a lot,” Mercedes replies matter-of-factly. She brushes a hand comfortingly through Ingrid’s hair. “I apologise, really, I thought you must have known.”

“I’m _such_ an idiot,” Ingrid bemoans. Mercedes wraps her arms around Ingrid's shoulders and pulls her against her chest. Her laugh rings out like the bells summoning the wedding guests to the chapel.

-+-

Ingrid slips through a servant's entrance to the preparation room behind the great hall. Amongst the stacked chairs, rolls of tapestries and religious artefacts she finds Sylvain and Felix sharing a swig from a small flask.

"It's pandemonium out here, all of Fodlan is here," she says, taking the flask from Felix gratefully, "I'm pretty sure I saw the King of Almyra."

"You invited Claude?" Felix questions Sylvain who shrugs in response as if to say 'well, we've all made weirder decisions in our lives'. Or at least that's the only way Ingrid can interpret it.

Instead he says, "listen," then pauses and rubs his hands down the stiff fabric across his thighs. Sylvain clears his throat and tries again.

"The last few days, maybe weeks, I've been thinking, _reflecting,_ a lot on the past. Having everyone here, I've been stuck in my memories and I can't help wondering what Dimitri would say."

Ingrid glances at Felix, Dimitri is still such a sore topic for him that she tries to not even think the name in his presence. Felix's face is neutral, fixed on listening to Sylvain.

"I'd like to think, despite it all," Sylvain drops his head as if his neck has been weak under the weight of it all, "that he'd be proud of me."

"I can't speak for Dimitri," Felix says, though he's the last living person who possibly could, "but I'm proud of you."

He speaks so fiercely that Sylvain bodily rocks back from the shock. Ingrid reaches out to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. Felix sighs.

"That's it," he grouses, "that's the last nice thing I'm saying. I'm sick of this, let's get it over and done with."

He charges towards the doors into the hall, pink to the ears and Sylvain and Ingrid share a small secret smile.

-+-

Teal is the colour of Faerghus. 

There is a flower that bravely blooms through the thick snow on the first days of spring and the dye it makes can be diluted to a variety of teals. In Fraldarius they keep it dark like the untamed seas off the rugged cliffs. In Galatea it gets washed out to the colour of the pale winter sky when it's not mottled with clouds. Only Gautier breaks with tradition, choosing a ruddy hue of rust and dried blood.

Today, however, Sylvain is dressed in teal and silver, a heavy ceremonial cape lined with fur across his shoulders. Felix and Ingrid match him in only the sashes of Blaiddyd blue across their chests.

The doors to the chapel creak open and the violins swell. As if she has received the message from on high, Mercedes rises to her feet a heartbeat before the crowd. She’s already looking directly at Ingrid and she smiles when they lock eyes. In a moment, it all becomes so simple, Ingrid thinks, as the rest of the chapel stands for the entrance of the bride. The grand hall falls to a hush as the organ strikes up a chord. 

When Dorothea appears, her bridesmaids carrying her train, she is dressed not in white, but a deep scarlet, threaded with gold. The truest colours of a fallen empire. She wears no veil, the proud expression on her face for all to see. Though he must have helped plan it, Sylvain is still shocked into awed silence. 

Ingrid spies the expression on his face to be wide-eyed, unconstrained joy. Behind him, even the Archbishop smiles. Catching Felix's gaze, she makes a mental note to tease him about being teary-eyed when all this is said and done.

She rocks back on her heels, releasing a breath of anticipation and feels, suddenly, at peace. There is nothing left she needs to do now.

-+-

Ingrid's footsteps crunch softly across the gravel as she sneaks away. She follows her instincts, leaving the party behind and finds her way across the gravel and grass towards the stables. The ball carries on behind her, golden light and music streaming out of every window. She hears laughter, high and melodic, probably Dorothea and she smiles.

A lone stable boy has dozed off, a half empty bottle of wine in his lap. Ingrid won’t tell. Boreas stamps his feet with impatience as Ingrid approaches. “Yes, yes,” she whispers, “I know it’s been a few days.” She digs a handful of sugar cubes from her pocket and he greedily laps them up. On a whim, she unlatches the gate and leads Boreas out. He gladly follows her out of the stables, shaking out his mane, his unbridled head. 

Ingrid stands out under the stars, counting the constellations she remembers, leaning on Boreas’ neck. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice breaks Ingrid from her reverie. Mercedes is walking across the grass towards them, shoes in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. In the moonlight, she is radiant; pale skin and hair and glowing golden dress. “You’re not going to try and make a quick getaway, are you?”

She’s joking, but Ingrid thinks she can hear the reprimand in her tone. “I just needed some air. And Boreas was lonely.”

Mercedes hums, pushing the bouquet into Ingrid’s arms in order to run her hands along Borea’s neck and pet him on the nose. The pegasus whinnies in pleasure. Ingrid studies the flowers, they look terribly familiar. “Mercedes, where did you get these?”

Mercedes raises a knowing eyebrow at her. “Where do you think?”

Realisation rushes over Ingrid in a wave. She flushes, feeling the pink rising on her chest and her cheeks. “Did you,” she squeaks out, “did you catch this from Dorothea?” 

“Indeed I did,” Mercedes chuckles and weaving around Boreas, steps in Ingrid’s space. “Then I came to ask when I could expect to be made an honest woman.”

The teasing tone in her murmur undoes Ingrid entirely and she surges forward, pulling Mercedes into a hug. Mercedes gasps and giggles, her shoes hitting the ground with a soft thud as she wraps her arms around Ingrid’s neck. Their mouths find each other, lips slotting into place. Even as Ingrid pulls back to rescue the flowers she’s inevitably crushing, Mercedes leans in, chasing her kiss. She curls her free hand around Mercedes’ jawline and the other woman shivers and presses her cheek against the fingers. Eyes closed, lips slightly parted; Mercedes is the vision of an angel to Ingrid.

Ingrid kisses her again. And again.

-+-

_1180 Ethereal Moon … The Goddess Tower_

Mercedes laughs, high and clear as a bell. It echoes off the tower and across the scenery beneath them. She squeezes tight on Ingrid’s hand, trapped tightly in her own. The moonlight catches on a strand of hair that falls across her face and it glows. Ingrid knows she should be embarrassed; she’s being laughed at after all, but instead she’s relieved. She thought for certain Mercedes would rebuke her or dismiss her out of hand.

But Mercedes hasn’t let her go. 

“Oh,” Mercedes finally inhales, catching her breath. “Oh, Ingrid, you don’t need to wish for that.” Her tone is teasing, chiding even, but her eyes are twinkling. She catches Ingrid’s other hand and straightens up. Suddenly, she’s very serious.

“I promise,” Mercedes says solemnly, like she’s making an oath. Maybe, Ingrid thinks dizzily, she is. “I _promise_ , whatever happens, I’ll stay by your side.” 

For a moment, Ingrid can’t breathe. Over Mercedes’ shoulder, the stars are glinting with promise. A tapestry of futures is overlaid on the map of Fodlan at their feet. She can see them finishing their time at the Academy and going home, taking flight on some pegasus together and she can see them travelling with their friends across the continent. She imagines meeting Mercedes’ family and taking her home to Faerghus. She allows herself to picture, just for a second, a wedding and a home together. 

Back in the now, the night sky is reflecting in Mercedes’ eyes; full of hope.

“I promise, too,” Ingrid says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
